


hemoglobin

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> John throws on his jacket but leaves the shirt, sitting bright and streaked with blackened crimson against the snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hemoglobin

“Let’s walk”

There’s blood everywhere; drying deep maroon in the cold January air, seeping into the threads of John’s plaid shirt, a smear of copper across denim clad leg - hemoglobin that’s not his. Not Sherlock’s, either, save the small scratch that runs from the hollow of his left cheek to ear. The red belongs to another man - murderer not victim - and John doesn’t remember much but the swish of a knife next to his ear and Sherlock’s raised voice, panicked.

So when Sherlock says _let’s walk_ , John pretty much has no choice but to follow. Some police officer calls after them, probably, but eventually the sweeping flash of ambulance lights fades and it’s just them; two shadows walking away, dark against the frost and light snow filtering through the clouds, sugar dusting the far too idyllic landscape.

They don’t say much for a while. John aches and burns and just wants to get rid of his clothes, while Sherlock upturns his coat collar and ignores the fleck of crimson that transfers onto the pale of his neck. Silence is comfy in a way, and John uses it to recollect, gather himself, to separate the last delicious throws of adrenaline from a beckoning nausea.

“I nearly lost you”

Sherlock says; flat, to himself, stops dead and turns on John in front of a large oak tree. It’s bare fingers reach out into the white sky and it’s only then that John remembers where they are; remembers the quiet and unsuspecting village of a crime scene, the hill littered chase and the man with the knife, the dangerous press of it against his neck and - most poignantly - the fact that just under thirty minutes ago, Sherlock saved his life.

It’s bloody freezing, which is the only real thing John comprehends as Sherlock smothers the metre between them, stretches his fingers to the top buttons of his shirt and begins to undo them; quickly, efficiently, and John wonders for a moment if he’s thought about doing this before. Burnt maroon transfers to the man’s fingernails, stains the cuticles as John’s jacket is pushed from his shoulders, shirt quickly following - and the shiver that reverberates through his skin has nothing to do with the falling snow.

John tries not to press into him, but it’s all gravity - the push and pull - and he’s just nearly got himself killed, so hell to it. Sherlock says nothing but the snow reflects in his eyes, whites and silvers, an angle of light so pale that he looks translucent. John’s boots crunch against the frosted grass as he steps forwards too; drags the pad of his thumb across that blunt scratch marring Sherlock’s face, watches the cheek muscle twitch as his own sweat bites the wound, collects the clotted blood there and wipes it on his jeans.

Then Sherlock kisses him. Except, it’s not really a kiss - more a method of recovery.

And John takes it, gathers it with his tongue wet against the flats of Sherlock’s teeth, strung out and restless in the cavern of his mouth and he _uses_ it, saliva and _warm_ , as if it’s a lifeline.

Sherlock pushes him, soft and in no particular direction, but John finds himself _knowing_ where to go, a soft bed of fluffy white as he drops to the ground; grunts at the fresh shake of cold that rattles his bones, burns icy against his back. Sherlock falls onto him, over him with a leg either side of his hips and the warm brush of his coat against John’s bare chest elicits a moan; strangulated, caught between snowflakes and reality.

The heavy wool forms a cave around them; a safeguard as Sherlock bends his mouth to John’s ear, sucks his lobe and embosses teeth against the soft flesh beneath it. John inhales, exhales, attempts to remember who he is, where he is, _why_ Sherlock is doing this.

That comes up with nothing, though, not a stitch - because John has no idea _why_ this is happening; shouldn’t really care at all with clever hands mapping his chest and arrogantly intelligent lips tracing his abdominals. But the way he’s being touched - purposeful and sure, desperate and like he’s fading away ( _I nearly lost you_ ) - makes John’s vision blur, his tendons shake, his breath short.

If he is _really_ disappearing then that’s quite alright, if it means this; a tongue wet and heavy across his ribs, the biting and sucking and kissing of his goosebumped flesh, a heady mixture of skin numbing frozen rain and Sherlock’s steamy breath.

It’s all okay and great and really fucking hot, actually, until John catches his eyes again, clouded storms, and finds that they’re not translucent anymore but opaque; dark with want and shockingly easy to decipher. John is looking into the abyss, two black holes of thick swirling mess and this time _he_ is the gravity, dragging Sherlock into a vast echoing space of untameable need and carnal dirty thoughts.

He wants so much just to raise his hips and meet Sherlock’s angular frame, feel taught muscles against his own and get right into him, around him and _through_ him. But he can’t, not like this - not in the heat of a moment that could be more down to guilt and fear rather than actual desire.

Skin numb, John catches the back of Sherlock’s neck with one hand, brings him up from the dip of his stomach to eye level, digs his fingernails into the nape and almost thinks about kissing him, one last time.

But he doesn’t have chance to _actually_ think because Sherlock decides for him, as always; takes his bottom lip and sucks until it bruises, breathes into him until there’s no more spare. Then he rises, graceful as a ghost, leaving John with nothing but bitten skin and an outstretched hand, which he takes without hesitation.

John throws on his jacket but leaves the shirt, sitting bright and streaked with blackened crimson against the snow.

“I’m still here, though”

Which is really _thanks_ , a gratitude so deep that John can’t quite articulate it any better than that. He shot the cabbie and Sherlock stabbed the bloodthirsty cottage dweller - they’re even in one way but _unbalanced_ , now, in every other. It’s unsettling, stifling, like there’s an unfinished case that John knows they will never open up again.

“Yes, you are” Sherlock swallows, pulls John’s jacket tighter around his shoulders and rolls his lips together, uncertain.

Then, they walk the landscape - side by side - silent, and alone.  


  


  



End file.
